The reasons of his hatred
by belana-rus
Summary: Why does Sherlock hate Mycroft so much?


**This is a translation of a story written by Undel. The original story can be found here: **www diary ru / ~undel21 ****

**The translation is made with the permission of the author.**

**Thanks to my wonderful beta, Elinaz, who helped to make this translation. You are the best!**

**Disclaimer:The author does not own any of it. Obviously, neither does the translator.**

* * *

><p><strong>The reasons of his hatred<strong>

The first time John heard this name was by accident.

He'd have never eavesdropped – he had no chance of succeeding, anyway – it was just that Sherlock and Mycroft were talking too loudly.

John was walking up the stairs when through the sounds of a screeching violin the words came:

"I'm not interested in men, I'm not interested in women – I'm married to my job."

"I would have readily believed you, Sherlock, but you don't have a job. Because something that gives you satisfaction but not money is not a job."

Sherlock produced some even more awful sounds from his violin.

"You know, Sherlock, when I talk to you I feel that I'm a saint."

"And you won't be allowed to go home – to hell."

"You've isolated yourself from the world. You have nothing real. No work, no steady income, not even a relationship. That thing with Eddie Brown is not a relationship by any stretch."

The violin fell silent. Everything grew quiet.

"Don't you dare talk about Eddie Brown."

John never heard Sherlock speak in such a voice.

Nothing else happened, but John remembered the name.

Every time Mycroft came, Sherlock tried to get rid of him.

Every time Mycroft called, Sherlock added his number to the black list (probably that's why there was always a new one).

Every time Mycroft wrote, Sherlock blocked his e-mails. Having watched all this, John asked Sherlock:

"How will you contact Mycroft if the need be?"

"I'll draw a pentagram. I never contact him, I don't need Mycroft. Neither do you, by the way. Don't expect him to offer money again – he never offers twice."

"Why do you hate him so?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Where did you get the idea?"

"You call him your archenemy."

"He is."

"Why?"

"He's my brother, that's reason enough."

"You know, I have an older sister, but…"

Sherlock closed the laptop sharply.

"Don't compare us! No one's ever done to you what Mycroft's done to me!"

Sherlock got out of the chair and hid in the shadows.

"What was it, Sherlock?"

John was not expecting an answer. After months of sharing the flat, he knew that Sherlock could cut a conversation short and even walk out. That's why he was surprised when after a long pause Sherlock started speaking again – and his voice was the same as in that conversation with Mycroft John'd overheard.

"I was fourteen when he did something. Something that he shouldn't have done. Since then everything is complicated."

"What did he do?" John asked quietly.

When Sherlock turned, his face was white and his lips tightened.

"He interfered."

Contrary to Sherlock's opinion, John could think and analyze.

He always knew that Sherlock had enough secrets, but this one seemed too important to remain so. Sherlock was becoming a part of his life, the more and more essential part. John had the right to know what was going on.

John didn't have a key to Sherlock, but there was a lock pick. Despite the inner confusion Mycroft caused him, John made up his mind to talk to him.

"Drugs again?" asked the man at the next table who turned out to be Mycroft Holmes.

"No."

"Then what did you want to talk about?"

"Why do you think I…"

Mycroft smiled that strange crooked smile of his.

"You didn't flinch when you saw me. But more to the point… What's going on with our Sherlock?"

John decided not to beat around the bush.

"Why does he call you his enemy?"

Mycroft laughed.

"You are a man of action, Doctor. You wouldn't understand, but anyone who offers a bored lounger to find a job at last, becomes his archenemy."

"That's it?"

"The gist of it, yes."

"What about Eddie Brown?"

Mycroft froze for a moment.

"Let me give you a piece of advice. If you want peace and quiet in the house, never – do you hear me? – ever mention Eddie Brown. That's all I can tell you."

"It's too late," John lied serenely. "We talked about him yesterday."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and looked at him with renewed interest.

"Oh, you've made it rather far, my dashing Doctor. Obviously you took Sherlock by storm. Well, if you've already discussed it I have nothing to add."

"The thing is I don't entirely understand your part in the story," John said deciding to go for it.

A shadow fell over Mycroft's face.

"It was all very simple. I didn't want them to meet. You know, Doctor, I thought that you would understand me better than anyone. But then again, you managed to get along with Sherlock, so I shouldn't expect miracles."

"You interfered."

"Of course I did. Don't look at me like that. Sherlock was fourteen, Eddie was twenty something. It was unacceptable. Yes, Sherlock was mad about him; Eddie was fascinated too." Mycroft smiled unpleasantly at some memory. "But one must observe common decency. Think of it as of my duty to my family."

"And you called the police," John finished the thought. He already knew where this was heading.

"Yes." Mycroft was looking at him fixedly. Each word of his was full of old, but vivid hatred. He must have been forced to return to this topic more than once. "And I'm not sorry. With all other things being equal, Eddie's present location suits me just fine. And when you tell Sherlock about this conversation – and I know you would – tell him it's time to forget about stupid childish grudges. That thing with Eddie Brown should be buried and forgotten. Repeat to him my words exactly: it should be buried and forgotten. He must live in the present. Especially since he found his equal, by the looks of it."

Mycroft got up to leave.

"You surprised me, Doctor." He said by way of a farewell. "I didn't think that this could happen, but you managed to surprise me again."

John held his tongue for a long time.

He didn't know how to get ready for difficult conversations, and neither did he know how to talk about emotional issues. But he knew that some things just need to be talked through. And that Sherlock was not likely to have someone else to talk to. That was John's understanding of his moral obligation.

It was Sunday. Sherlock was lying on the sofa in the living room, wearing a dressing gown and his favorite purple pajamas. He wasn't reading or surfing the net on his laptop, he was just being bored.

John went to the kitchen, made two cups of tea and put them on the coffee table. Then he took a seat next to Sherlock. He thought about putting a hand on his shoulder, but decided that it was too much.

He knew that no tricks would work with Sherlock, so John just decided to come straight to the point.

"You and Mycroft. It's about Eddie Brown, isn't it?"

He was expecting questions (at least about how he knew of Eddie), but Sherlock simply nodded, staring into space.

"Was he important to you?"

Sherlock nodded again.

John fell silent.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Sherlock glanced at him, arrogant and nettled at the same time, John thought.

"I still sleep with him. Sometimes."

After the conversation with Mycroft John didn't expect this, but nodded anyway.

"Ok."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that everything can be fixed."

Sherlock instantly became angry and confused. He got up and started running about the room.

"It can never be fixed! How could it be?"

John was at loss.

"But I thought… I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have… Sherlock, I understand…"

Sherlock grabbed the skull from the mantelpiece and stroked it nervously. And then he started to talk, incoherently and heatedly.

"No, you don't understand, no one can understand this. Eddie was my first. You don't know how it feels when you are fourteen, and there is nothing around you – only school, mediocrity and boredom. And then, suddenly, there is Eddie Brown! Fabulous, lovely, perfect! He was a delight, a glimpse of happiness! Of course, Mycroft had to interfere. He said that seeing Eddie will bring me to a bad end. Mycroft went to the police and reported him. Mycroft stole Eddie from me! It could have been the best autumn of my life, but he ruined it! You think it was easy, don't you? Now I can participate in an investigation, I have access to police information, I can go to morgues and crime scenes. But then everything I had was newspaper reports and a couple of blurred photos. And I found him! I knew everything about him!"

"Wait, what are these reports and investigations you are talking about?"

Sherlock looked at him with the mixture of annoyance and pity.

"Eddie Brown. The strangler of Lindworth. Do you ever read newspapers? He was my first maniac! Or could have been if not for Mycroft. Eddie was a miracle, he had IQ of forty, but he killed seven people and didn't get caught. He was dumb as an animal and clever as… an animal. Wasn't that delightful? Wasn't that interesting? Hey, John, what are you..."

But John was already laughing and just couldn't stop.

Sherlock stood there pale and indignant. "What the hell?" was clearly written on his face.

"Wait," said John after catching his breath. "You mean, you wanted to turn him in yourself?"

"Maybe later. But first I wanted to talk to him. I was interested in his spontaneous reactions when I would drive him into a corner. Psychological, physiological ones. His facial expressions, his pupils, his hands. I had a theory about that kind of thing."

"Sherlock, he would have killed you."

"No."

"He was a maniac."

"I just started to take boxing classes back then."

"Sherlock, have I ever told you that you are an idiot?"

"Yes. And even then you were wrong."

"Do you hate Mycroft because of him?"

"Ah, so you think that's not enough, don't you? Or do you think that British schoolboys catch serial killers every month? Well then, I have to disappoint you – they don't."

"I'm greatly disappointed in you, Sherlock," John answered wiping the tears away. "I'm sorry, but I thought you were human. Is that why you call the skull Eddie?"

Sherlock stared at him. He had this kind of look when he was painfully aware of how stupid people around him were.

"I call him Eddie because he is Eddie."

"What?"

"Eddie Brown."

John blinked. He looked at Sherlock, at the skull, then at Sherlock again.

"Are you saying that this is indeed the skull of Eddie Brown?"

"What makes you think I could have forged it? He was shot dead during the arrest, so he didn't need his head anymore. He didn't have much use for it even when he was alive."

"You said you brought it from the university."

"Of course. But first I brought it there. Eddie was a road worker and a high school dropout, he had no other way of getting to university."

"You've dug him out!"

"No, I had the skull mailed to me. Or should I have asked Santa for it, like a good boy?"

"How did Mycroft allow that?"

"He helped to bury the corpse again."

"What about your Mum?"

"She said that it was better that I had his head and not the other way around."

"Shit, Sherlock, I thought you slept with him! You said so yourself."

"You sleep with a book sometimes. So what? Ah, you're talking about sex. You're crazy about sex, John. It's not healthy. Have sex, for God's sake, and stop thinking about it."

"Me? I'm crazy? This is from a man who keeps a maniac's skull in the house out of sentimentality."

"Are you saying that you'd rather it was a skull of an ex-flatmate? And it's not sentimentality. I was interested in his occipital lobes. They still hold some interest for me."

John looked at him with delight. His heart was overflowing with tenderness. He loved Sherlock, loved their flat, and loved Eddie Brown's skull. At that moment he loved the whole world.

"Sherlock, are you ever going to grow up? I hope not."


End file.
